


A Lovely Trick

by allyasavestheday



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Awkwardness, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 11:27:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4827419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyasavestheday/pseuds/allyasavestheday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac is having none of it. “Oh, no,” he says, "You are going to finally confront your torrid desires for a certain scruffy, pun-denominated artist.”</p><p>“My desires,” Enjolras starts, then, realizing how loudly he is speaking, lowers his voice to repeat, “My desires are not torrid.”</p><p>“Then you’re not utilizing the full capacity of your imagination,” Courfeyrac says, shaking his head.<br/> <br/>(In which Enjolras has never been kissed, and Grantaire teaches him.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lovely Trick

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from the Ingrid Bergman quote, "A kiss is a lovely trick designed by nature to stop speech when words become superfluous."
> 
> A big, big thank you to Josie (occupyenjolras on tumblr) for beta'ing this, and listening to me complain about it.

“You’ve never been kissed before?”

The disbelief in Grantaire’s voice should not have been as unexpected as it is. It cuts through the din of conversation and reaches Enjolras nearly half a room away. Enjolras looks over at him from his spot on the couch, sitting at the kitchen table mid-conversation with Feuilly.

Enjolras has heard disbelief from Grantaire before. Hell, nearly every conversation they have includes Grantaire’s skepticism. His favorite past time, it seems, is predicting failure with their every endeavor. It was the sort of doubt that Grantaire has carefully tailored to irritate Enjolras, whether he truly means a word of what he’s saying or not. Enjolras has learned to think the latter.

But Enjolras has never heard him so startled, almost involuntary, like he hadn’t even realized he was speaking before the words left his mouth.

Looking at him now, Enjolras can see that it is dawning on Grantaire that he has, indeed, spoken the words out loud, because a ruddy blush is finding its way across his cheeks, spreading to his ears, and when Enjolras meets his gaze, his eyes widen.

“No,” Enjolras says, matter-of-fact. Watching Grantaire, Enjolras sees his dark brows play some sort of game, fighting to either contract or rise and end up doing neither.

Glancing around the room, none of his other friends register any sort of surprise, and if it’s news to any of them, they don’t care enough to mention it.

Jehan is sprawled in the middle the living room floor, their head resting in Courfeyrac’s lap, and when Enjolras catches their eye, they wink, nodding subtly at Grantaire. Enjolras frowns at them and shakes his head just enough that Jehan smiles wide and bites their lip, their nose crinkling up with amusement. Courfeyrac is carding his fingers through Jehan’s hair and Enjolras follows the movement up to his face, and finds Courfeyrac grinning at him, eyebrows raised high and sly. Enjolras’ frown deepens and he hopes that look doesn’t mean anything.

It’s Courfeyrac. Of course it means something.

Looking back at Grantaire, Enjolras shrugs. “You know I’m demi.”

"I mean, yeah, of course,” Grantaire says quickly, and he makes a gesture that seems apologetic and small, like he wanted to hide from Enjolras’ attention and attractive it all at once. “I just thought, you’re so beautiful, surely, I-“ He breaks off with a quiet stutter, this time immediately aware of the words coming out of his mouth.

Enjolras is staring, he knows he is.

He knows, objectively, that he is an attractive person. He’s heard it so many times from strangers, from friends, that it’s a hard idea to dismiss, whatever he might think of himself, which was relatively well.

But hearing it from Grantaire, there is something different. It shouldn’t be, Grantaire is an artist, and he finds the beauty in everything he sees. Enjolras has seen him sketch total strangers, many of them people others would not spare a second glance, with patient, almost loving strokes, carefully transferring them to paper with deft hands. Deft hands that are now clumsily lifting his beer to his lips, but he doesn’t look away. He doesn’t take back his words.

Perhaps it is the way he had said it.

They sounded like words he has said before, has said a thousand times before. They sprang easily to his lips; fell from them like they belonged there. His voice breathless, a little fast, as though he is used to those words riding on the back of a sigh.

But now Grantaire is silent, and the room is silent too, their friends looking apprehensively between them. Combeferre pushes his glassed up his nose, though they hadn’t been falling down, and Enjolras is sure that if Combeferre raises his brows any high, they’ll disappear into his hairline. If he exchanges a look with Courfeyrac, Enjolras elects to ignore it.

That is, until Courfeyrac asks,  “Would you like to learn how?”

Not remembering where the conversation had been before Grantaire’s interruption, Enjolras raises his eyebrows at him, “What?”

Courfeyrac’s leer is coy. “Would you like someone to teach you how to kiss?” he repeats.

Enjolras’ confusion melts away quickly, and his face settles into a scowl. They had been talking about things they had and hadn’t done, and whether they thought they were missing out when Enjolras had brought up his never having been kissed. "Why would I need someone to teach me?"

“If you’ve never been kissed, how can you know how?”

“It can’t be that difficult,” he says impatiently.

Courfeyrac laughs, and Enjolras has the perfect opportunity to derail the conversation, turn it instead to a discussion on societal expectations and how people are expected to have all sorts of romantic and sexual experiences by a certain age and if they haven’t, they are immature or naïve, when that simply wasn’t realistic, wasn’t _fair_ to people.

And, to be perfectly honest, Enjolras didn’t think it was that big a deal. Kissing isn't something he has ever been particularly interested in, though he’s been assured by most of his friends that it’s a pleasant experience. He’s sure they're right, most of the population seems to enjoy kissing and the media certainly enjoys showing it in every movie and TV show, but he doesn't know why it has to be as big of a deal as everyone makes it out to be. It’s just lips touching lips. It looks like it has the potential to be incredibly awkward and weird. Does he really want someone else’s tongue in his mouth? What does that accomplish?

But Courfeyrac knows him, knows what he’s opening his mouth to say, and interrupts, “Not that it’s important, of course. It was just a thought.” And the way he leans forward, and the way his eyes crinkle up tell Enjolras the smirk on his face is affectionate and facetious. He gestures at himself innocently, “I mean, I very graciously offer myself as your teacher, if you’d like.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’d like that,” Combeferre chimes in.

“Or someone else!” Courfeyrac adds hastily, waving around the room. Their friends have all but stopped their conversations, listening now to the exchange happening in the middle of the room. “I’m sure no one would say no, so long as you were okay with it. Why not Bahorel or ‘Chetta, or… R?”

At the sound of his name, Grantaire looks up, but if the look on his face is any indication, there are about a million things he would rather do than kiss Enjolras.

Musichetta on the other hand, from where she’s sitting with her legs draped across Joly and Bossuet’s laps, makes a kissy noise, puckering up her lips at him. Enjolras grins at her, waving her off.

“No takers?” Courfeyrac asks, looking towards the kitchen pointedly.

Enjolras could strangle him. What was this supposed to accomplish? If Grantaire hadn’t been sitting _right there_ , he might have played along with it, for a little while at least. But Courfeyrac knows how he feels about Grantaire, he knows that the only person Enjolras wants to kiss is probably the only person in the room who-

“I’d do it,” Grantaire calls loudly, maybe a little too loudly. There is that look again, like he hadn’t realized he was speaking before the words fell from his lips. “I mean, if you were okay with it.”

The room goes so quiet, so still, even Marius stops fiddling with one of the tassels on Cosette’s dress.

Enjolras catches Combeferre’s gaze, and he had been wrong, it is possible for Combeferre to raise his brows higher. When he does so, his glasses slip a little down the bridge of his nose, and he has to push them up again, but not without making sure Enjolras is incapable of mistaking the meaning behind his look.

Enjolras does not mistake the meaning. He chooses to ignore it.

And then Bahorel is laughing, and it must be a joke, of course it is, and he adds, “Who would turn down the chance to kiss our handsome leader?”

But no one is laughing, and Bossuet is looking hard at Grantaire, Musichetta’s thumb rubbing circles into his knee until he looks away. Grantaire doesn’t look at anyone, only acknowledging Feuilly’s gentle kick to the foot with a shrug.

“Maybe I’ll take you up on that,” Enjolras says, hoping his tone comes across light. He isn’t sure it does; his heart is pounding in his throat.

Grantaire looks up, eyes wide, and then he laughs, though it isn’t his usual belly-deep laugh. “I hope you do.”

Courfeyrac looks like Christmas has come early.

Éponine chooses that moment to ask why they were still sitting around talking when she is pretty sure they came over to Grantaire’s to watch the newest Marvel movie.

“It’s called socializing,” Grantaire replies, standing to get his laptop.

“Yeah, because you’ve been doing so much of that!” she calls after him. 

Grantaire doesn’t respond, and Enjolras watches him leave the room, only looking away when Combeferre kicks his shin. “What?” he mouths.

Combeferre isn’t the one who speaks though, it is Courfeyrac who, still grinning like the idiot he is, says, “Well, well.”

“Well, nothing,” Enjolras hisses, and the others pretend they’re not listening but they are; they’re the biggest gossips Enjolras knows.

“Nothing my ass,” Courfeyrac says. “Are you gonna make your move or not?”

Enjolras doesn’t have time to reply, which is fine, because he is too flustered to come up with a scathing reply, because Grantaire has returned with his laptop and cord, and is asking Éponine to find a good quality version of the movie to stream. He bends over to plug the adapter into the television port, and Enjolras has to look away, a warm blush creeping up his neck.

Courfeyrac blows a kiss at Enjolras, only to be elbowed by Jehan, who has remained treacherously quiet, though if their impish grin is anything to go by, they are on Courfeyrac’s side for all of this.

* * *

It takes two and a half hours after the final credit scenes before Grantaire announces that it’s time for everyone to stop arguing about the different aspects of the movie and leave.

By this point, both Combeferre and Courfeyrac have whispered too many encouraging (and lewd) things to him, and he’s gotten more than one conspiratorial look or nudge from his other, stupidly unsubtle friends. Despite his best efforts, throughout the movie, Enjolras hadn’t been able to resist looking back to where Grantaire was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing his beer bottle. Every now and again Feuilly would whisper something to him and he’d duck his head.

More than once, Feuilly caught Enjolras looking over at them and waved, rather obviously. Each time he did, Grantaire looked hard at the table, refusing to look up as Enjolras quickly pretended to not have been staring.

He doesn’t know why Grantaire won’t look at him. He doesn’t want to think that maybe their joking made him uncomfortable.

As everyone is pulling on jackets and saying goodbye, Courfeyrac takes Combeferre’s hand, and says to Enjolras, “You may want to find somewhere else to stay tonight.”

Enjolras makes a mental note to himself that he needed to move out long ago, though he quite enjoys living with his best friends- when they aren’t being hugely obnoxious about being in love with each other, that is. He is also completely aware of why Courfeyrac is announcing this here, before they’ve left.

Narrowing his eyes at them, he says, “Okay, fine.” He turns to Bahorel, the only one of their friends besides Grantaire who isn’t paired off, when Courfeyrac hits him in the shoulder. He fixes Courfeyrac with an expectant look. “Yes?”

Courfeyrac’s bright face is scrunched up in a scowl. “You know what I meant.”

“Yes, it was perfectly obvious you are and ‘Ferre-“

“Which gives you the perfect opportunity to make your move.”

Enjolras is surprised at how quiet Courfeyrac’s voice is, not raised to draw notice and force Enjolras to face any sort of attention from the rest of their group. He feels a little spark of affection for his friend. “What move?” he whispers.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac look at him with a mixture of pity and amusement. Combeferre pulls a scarf around his neck, tying it while he says, “It would help to admit your feelings for him.”

“And if he doesn’t like me?” Enjolras demands. “What am I supposed to do then? Because then things will be weird between us, and Bossuet and Joly and ‘Chetta will know and that’ll be awkward, and it’s not like I can even go home, because you’re kicking me out of the flat, or the café where _all of our friends frequent_ -”

“And you think _I’m_ a drama queen,” Courfeyrac says to Combeferre.

Combeferre smiles. “That’s because you are.” He looks at Enjolras. “I am sure it will go fine.”

“And if it doesn’t?” Enjolras stresses again.

“Dear lord,” Courfeyrac pushes his fringe out of his face. “Listen to me, oh fearless one. At minimum, he offered to teach you how to kiss-“

“As a joke!”

“So what? Take him up on it! He said _he hoped you would_ , it’s an open invitation. He wants you to. Literally, Jesus Christ-“

Putting his hand on Courfeyrac’s arm, Combeferre takes over, much more calmly. “Enjolras, you’re overthinking this. If he doesn’t like you, which I’m not saying he doesn’t, then he doesn’t like you. It’s not the end of the world.”

If their friends weren’t present and Enjolras was at home, he might have let out a very prolonged groan, but he has to settle instead for simply glaring hard at the two of them. He starts to say that, ‘Yes, it is’ when Combeferre, knowing what he was thinking, says, ‘It really isn’t.” It’s a little uncanny.

Pursing his lips, Enjolras looks over at their friends. Joly is leaning hard on his cane, laughing at something Jehan is saying to him, Musichetta is saying goodbye to Grantaire, standing on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. Marius is heading towards them, Cosette’s scarf draped over his arm, to say goodbye to Courfeyrac.

Enjolras watches the way Grantaire’s face lights up, the stress lines melting away when Bossuet and Musichetta tease him, Éponine at his other side, punching him in the shoulder lightly.

Grantaire isn’t classically beautiful, like many of them are. He’s a few centimeters shorter than Enjolras, but broader and muscular, from his years as a gymnast and dancer. His nose is slightly crooked, and Enjolras remembers the day he and Bahorel stumbled into the Café, laughing, shirts soaked with blood, and Grantaire’s voice thick from his bleeding nose, as he recounted their latest training session gone wrong. He remembers his stomach dropping, not registering the laughter, only seeing Grantaire, covered in blood, clutching what turned out to be a broken nose. It didn’t heal well because he refused to go to the hospital for what he called, ‘Not a big deal,’ barely allowing Joly to cluck over him while Combeferre told him what to do to stop the bleeding, instructions he waved off, knowing already.

Enjolras worries about Grantaire often. It isn’t that Grantaire doesn’t know how to take care of himself; it is simply that he doesn’t. He drinks too much, which Enjolras knew worries all of them. More than once, the blood on his shirt has been his own and not because of a mishap with Bahorel. Sometimes they don’t see him for days, and Bossuet or Joly or Éponine, will go over, the though rest of them don’t ask questions, the strained smiles on their faces when they see les Amis next tell them all they need to know.

Enjolras has wanted to go over there, but stopped himself every time. It wasn’t his place. He and Grantaire bicker with one another other, he is frustrated, less patient than he should be, when he tells Grantaire to put the bottle down. He isn’t gentle, their relationship isn't yet one where they would turn to each other for personal help, and that would disrupt their established pattern. A pattern they were both used to, were comfortable falling into.

But Enjolras doesn’t want their relationship to just be exasperation and bickering. He wants to be there for Grantaire, help him.

No, that’s not fair of him, pretending all of his reasons are altruistic. Not that he doesn’t want to do the aforementioned things; it is just that he wants a lot of other things with Grantaire as well.

That thought brings him back to the issue at hand, which wasn’t even an issue, because he wasn’t going to do it. He would just go for a walk for an hour or two, he wasn’t going to enlist Grantaire’s help with learning how to kiss. That would feel wrong, manipulative.

But he really can’t help but imagine what it would be like. It’s not like he’s never thought about it. It’s definitely not like he’s never considered it with Grantaire, not that he would willingly admit it. At this point in the night, just after midnight, Grantaire is sporting what is well past a five o’clock shadow, and Enjolras imagines it would be bristly against his nose. Would his lips be chapped? He licks them a lot, maybe they’re dry. Enjolras isn’t sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing when it comes to kissing.

Enjolras is still staring at Grantaire when Grantaire looks up suddenly, and the smile vanishes from his mouth when he sees Enjolras watching. Enjolras looks away quickly.

While Courfeyrac and Marius are talking, Combeferre leans closer to Enjolras so Marius can’t hear. “You don’t have to, you know, if you don’t want to. Courf is joking. Mostly.”

“I hadn’t even been considering it,” Enjolras lies.

The look Combeferre gives him tells Enjolras that he is not convinced. “Uh hunh,” he hums, waving as Feuilly and Jehan make their way out. “How long are you going to pretend there’s nothing going on?”

“Until either he makes a move or I get over him,” Enjolras says stubbornly. “And since the first isn’t going to happen, I’ll just have to wait until the second.”

“You know, most peoples’ biggest fear is public speaking,” Combeferre muses. “Yet you do that for a living. But asking someone out, oh no.”

“I’m sure rejection is high up on that list,” Enjolras returns.

“Actually, that’d be spiders and-“

“ _And_ ,” Enjolras continues. “Public speaking is easy, for me, anyway. I’ve got a script; I know what needs to be said, what my responses are. With Grantaire…” he trails off. Say any more and he might as well admit his feelings. Not that Combeferre didn’t already know them. “I never know what he’s going to do.” Grantaire could be unpredictable, friendly and joking one day, and then hours later, a dark mood might descend upon him, and he would withdraw from them.

Combeferre’s dark eyes are watching him, and Enjolras feels like one of his patients, scrutinized and diagnosed. “Well,” Combeferre considers. “What if I were to tell you that everything would go fine?”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“But if I did,” he insists.

Enjolras’ stomach swoops, and he leans forward, trying not to betray his eagerness. He fails. “Why, do you know something?”

The smile Combeferre grants him is commiserative, but he shakes his head and Enjolras wilts. “No. But if I did.”

“But you don’t.”

“Just go with it for a second, Enjolras,” Combeferre’s patience is waning. “If I told you, with one hundred percent certainty that if you were to ask Grantaire out, that he would say yes, would you do it?”

Without hesitation, “Yes.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

“Because you _don’t_ know with one hundred percent certainty.”

Marius is slapping Courfeyrac on the back, laughing at something, and calling to the rest of them, “ _À demain!_ ” Cosette is close behind, waving a dainty, “ _Salut!_ ” A chorus of goodbyes follow them, and Enjolras sees Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta wrapping up their conversation with Grantaire, Musichetta already taking a few steps towards the door. She pats Courfeyrac’s arm as she passes, smiling at Enjolras and Combeferre.

Courfeyrac turns to rejoin their conversation, looking to Combeferre for an update. “Still convincing him to ask out Grantaire,” Combeferre supplies.

“Ah,” Courfeyrac nods solemnly.

“Maybe we should hold this conversation elsewhere,” Enjolras says, watching over Courfeyrac’s head as Bossuet and Joly join Musichetta by the door, leaving just Éponine, Bahorel, and Grantaire. He waves as the trio departs.

Courfeyrac is having none of it. “Oh, no,” he says, holding up a finger and waving it in Enjolras’ face. “No, see, Combeferre and I are going to have a nice night, _alone_ , and you’re going to finally confront your torrid desires for a certain scruffy, pun-denominated artist.”

“My desires,” Enjolras starts, then, realizing how loud he is speaking, lowers his voice to repeat, “My desires are not _torrid_.”

“Then you’re not utilizing the full capacity of your imagination,” Courfeyrac says, shaking his head.

“Apologies,” Enjolras replies dryly, looking to Combeferre for support, which he decidedly does not get when Combeferre shrugs. “Fine. I’ll go for a walk or something. I’ll be back in three hours. That should be more than enough time for you two.”

Courfeyrac opens his mouth to respond, but Combeferre interrupts, “If you would do it with one hundred percent certainty, why won’t you do it when you have no certainty he’ll say no?”

It takes Enjolras a moment to parse out where that had come from, and judging by Courfeyrac’s expression, he’s trying to do the same. “Were you using psychology to get Enjolras to ask out R?” Courfeyrac asks.

“I’m not that kind of doctor,” Combeferre says. “And no, just common sense.” He looks at Enjolras. “You have no reason to believe he’ll say no. At worst, you have a fifty percent chance he’ll say no. You could flip a coin.”

“Oh!” Courfeyrac digs in his pocket, and Enjolras can hear the quiet clink of metal. He pulls out a five-cent coin, holding it up for them to see. “Heads, you ask him out. Or teach you to kiss. Or whatever. Tails… well, you still can’t come home, but I won’t tease you endlessly.” He pauses, seems to reconsider the offer, and adds, “For the next twenty-four hours.”

Raising his eyebrows, but not bothering to argue, Enjolras gestures for him to get on with it.

Courfeyrac balances the coin on his thumb carefully, and flicks it high. Enjolras watches it spin in the air, fall back down, and completely miss Courfeyrac’s outstretched palm.

The coin hits the floor with a loud thunk, bounces a few times, and rolls towards the kitchen, only coming to a stop when it hits Grantaire’s shoe.

There is a beat of silence where Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras exchange looks with Éponine, Bahorel, and Grantaire.

Then Grantaire leans down, peering down at the coin. “Heads,” he says, picking it up and tossing it to Courfeyrac, who, by some luck, manages to catch it this time. “For whatever it is you’re arguing about over there.”

Courfeyrac has never looked so smug. Not even when Combeferre admitted he preferred Picard to Kirk (“It’s Patrick Stewart!” he’d explained. Enjolras, who had never cared that much about the argument before that moment, had been scandalized) had Courfeyrac looked so pleased with himself.

When the coin was in the air, Enjolras had tried to tell himself that he didn’t care how it landed. It would land the way it would land.

However, when he saw Grantaire looking at the coin, his whole body tensed, and he didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until it all came out with a whoosh when Grantaire announced ‘heads.’

Before he can let any more self-doubt creep into his decision, he gives Combeferre and Courfeyrac a curt nod. Courfeyrac crows his delight, only to be cut off by Combeferre elbowing him in the ribs.

The other three are watching them curiously, but neither Éponine nor Bahorel seem to care enough to comment, as the first turns to Grantaire and says, “Before I forget, you were going to loan me _La Nausée,_ ” and the second announces that he’ll, “be taking his leave now.”

Bahorel gives a very dramatic, sweeping bow, and exits the flat, leaving Grantaire to point at the triumvirate. “I expect you lot to be gone by the time I get her this book.”

Courfeyrac flashes him a wide grin, and salutes broadly. Grantaire isn’t even phased, just shakes his head, and goes to his bedroom to find the book.

Éponine rounds on them, her dark eyes narrowed. “What are you three up to?”

Courfeyrac feigns hurt, clutching his heart. “Why, ‘Ponine, I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Her stare turns deadly, “Don’t you give me that bullshit. You,” she’s pointing at Courfeyrac, “have been pulling shit all evening.” Courfeyrac doesn’t even have the dignity to look ashamed. “With your offers to teach _that one_ how to kiss,” Enjolras decides he isn’t offended she called him ‘that one’ when she’s pointing to him in the way that she is. Which is mildly threateningly. “So forgive me if I don’t buy into… whatever that was.”

“We’re not ‘pulling’ anything, Èp,” Combeferre insists. “We’re-”

Enjolras isn’t really sure what explanation he’s going to give, isn’t really sure how Combeferre is going to explain the situation without incurring Éponine’s wrath, but luckily he doesn’t have to find out. Grantaire has reentered the room with a, “I thought I told you all to be gone?” He doesn’t look annoyed, just placidly exasperated, and a little amused. He isn’t looking at Enjolras.

“Right! Of course!” Courfeyrac jumps to attention, grabbing hold of Combeferre’s hand, and, after Éponine has taken the book from Grantaire, her arm. “ _Ciao_ , _mon gros!_ ” Grantaire waves, turning to the kitchen, picking up an empty bowl of popcorn on the way. Combeferre gives Enjolras an encouraging smile as he’s dragged from the flat.

Enjolras does not feel very encouraged.

He can hear Éponine curse Courfeyrac down the hallway, “If you don’t take your hands off of me, I will shave your curls in your sleep.” Judging by the lack of further threats, Courfeyrac probably very quickly let her go.

Grantaire doesn’t seem to realize Enjolras is still there, quietly humming to himself as he rinses cups. Enjolras doesn’t recognize the song, if it’s a song at all. He wants to clear his throat, or say something, because standing here, unnoticed, feels wrong and more than a little creepy, but he finds Grantaire’s singing endearing and he doesn’t want him to stop.

He does, though, when he turns around, seeing Enjolras standing in the middle of his living room, nearly dropping the mug he was moving to put away. “Oh!” he gasps, and quickly recovers, setting the mug in the open cupboard. “Did you forget something, Enjolras?” He says Enjolras’ name carefully, slowly.

“Erm, no.” Enjolras watches him pick up another mug and swirl water inside it. “I was, well.” Now that he is here, in the moment, he knows he has the chance to back out, act like nothing was going to happen but… he doesn’t want to. “What were you humming just now?” he asks suddenly.

“What? Oh, nothing, just, I don’t know, a tune.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Enjolras shuffles his feet, waiting for Grantaire to tire of him and ask him to leave. Instead, Grantaire shrugs and turns back to washing the mugs. “I’ll wash if you dry,” he says, holding out a dishtowel to Enjolras.

Why not, Enjolras thinks, slipping off his coat and draping it over the arm of the couch. He takes the towel from Grantaire, and accepts the freshly washed mug carefully, fingers brushing Grantaire’s when he does so. Grantaire pauses for a fraction of a second, before reaching for another mug.

They wash their way through the remaining mugs, and Enjolras is turning to collect the ones on the coffee table when Grantaire says, “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

Enjolras thinks he’s trying to be funny, but he isn’t sure. Grantaire smiles easily at him, drying his hands on the front of his jeans, but there is something panicked in his eyes. Enjolras tries to remember the last time the two of them had been actually, completely alone for more than a few minutes at a time and can’t remember.

“I mean,” Grantaire spreads his hands to indicate the apartment, “I’m sure you didn’t stay to help clean up after our friends.” he laughs, but it is less of a laugh, and more of a breathy ‘heh’ that quickly fades from his lips when Enjolras doesn’t join in.

Just spit it out. He can’t put it off forever; eventually Grantaire is going to kick him out. “I was just wondering if you were serious about your offer.” There.

Grantaire looks to the side, at nothing in particularly, eyes narrowed, and then back at Enjolras. “What offer?” The slow way he says it tells Enjolras that he knows exactly what offer Enjolras is referring to. Enjolras sees him fist the hem of his sweater, knuckles white.

“You offered to teach me how to kiss.”

Grantaire gives another one of his weird laughs, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Oh. I did,” he says quietly.

“I mean, if you didn’t mean it-“ Enjolras says quickly, feeling his face heat.

“No, I did!” Grantaire says, just as fast. “It’s just…” he falls silent, and he’s not looking at Enjolras, and this is so unusual, because Enjolras is used to Grantaire watching him, the way he always has, speaking up to get his attention, and this entire evening he has avoided Enjolras at all costs.

“What?” Enjolras feels the knot in his stomach tighten. This was a bad idea, he is going to kill Courfeyrac, he knew this was a bad idea.

Grantaire shakes his head, “I’m just trying to figure out if you’re drunk, if I’m drunk, or if this is some weird hallucination.”

And Enjolras hadn’t thought of that, that Grantaire could have been drunk when he offered, that he could be drunk now. There was no way he would go through with it if that were the case. He knows Grantaire had at least a beer, but he’s been doing so well lately, maybe…

“How much have you had to drink?” Enjolras asks tentatively.

“Not as much as you apparently,” Grantaire says, looking at him like he has gone insane. “I just had the one.”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I didn’t have anything tonight.”

If Enjolras could capture the look on Grantaire’s face, he would. Grantaire’s face goes slack with surprise, his lips parting just enough to let a soft breath of air out, a quiet, “What?” escaping.

“I haven’t had anything to drink tonight,” Enjolras repeats.

“So you’re serious.”

“Yes, I want you to teach me how to kiss.” A little bit of impatience slips into his tone. “You offered, I assume you meant it, though under the circumstances, I would understand if it was a joke.”

Grantaire is opening and closing his mouth wordlessly, “I mean, yeah, I guess.”

“You guess it was a joke?” There is no sinking feeling in Enjolras’ stomach, no.

“No, I mean, I guess I could teach you,” he says, and his words come out a little strangled. “If that’s what you want and not Courfeyrac making you.”

“Of course this is what I want,” Enjolras assures him. “Courfeyrac can’t make me do anything. Except paint his nails, but that’s only- that’s unrelated. Besides, I’m sure you’re the best candidate.”

Grantaire laughs shakily at that, “Why on Earth would you think that?”

 _Because I’m bloody in love with you_ , “I just mean, you have experience with this sort of thing. You’ve been in relationships with people.”

“Yeah…” Grantaire says, and Enjolras tries not to think too much about the way his eyes flicker away from Enjolras and back again.

But it’s impossible not to second-guess himself, especially when the next words out of Grantaire’s mouth are, “I don’t want you to like, I don’t know, get the wrong idea, I know how you feel about me so, and how I fe-“

“I what?” For Enjolras, it feels as though everything has gone very still, even as he watches Grantaire fidget and shift back and forth.

“You don’t like _feel_ anything for me, I don’t want you to think you have to do this, especially if you want to prove something to Courf. It’s not that big of a deal if you don’t know how to kiss, it’s really not-”

“No, I know it’s not. Courfeyrac was joking around, I know he was. But this is also something I want to do, I want to know how to kiss.” _I want to kiss you_ is what he wants to say, but he doesn’t think that would make Grantaire more comfortable with the situation. But how can Grantaire think he doesn’t like him? Is it not obvious? “I mean, I don’t want _you_ to feel like-“

“No, no, no, I’m fine with it!” Grantaire looks stricken, his eyes wide, and his hands placating. “I just want us both to be, you know, on the same page. About all of this.”  He means about them being friends. Is it dishonest of Enjolras to let Grantaire do this when he’s under the assumption that they both think this is platonic?

It’s just a friendly gesture, Enjolras reminds himself, swallowing the lump of disappointment caught in his throat. It doesn’t have to mean anything more than that. And, he tells himself, now he has his answer about asking Grantaire out. At least he didn’t go for it only to get rejected. “Yeah, totally.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire parrots, licking his lips. He’s picking absentmindedly at a loose thread on the sleeve of his hoodie, and Enjolras wonders if he knows he’s starting to unravel the cuff. Then, like he’s been shocked by something, Grantaire jerks, standing more upright. “Yeah,” he says again, “So, um.” He gestures around the room, “I mean, I don’t know how you want to…”

“Oh!” Enjolras hadn’t thought about it. “Standing, I guess.” That seems the most straightforward. Sitting means having to turn his body and balancing, and all things considered, Enjolras thinks it best to keep this as simple as possible.

Grantaire nods, pushing up his sleeves mid forearms and Enjolras can see the edges of one of his tattoos, a grouping of bright red carnations. He doesn’t remember when Grantaire got that tattoo, but he has had it almost as long as Enjolras has known him.

     

Enjolras watches Grantaire lick his lips, straightening his shoulders subtly as he walks towards Enjolras. He looks as though he is psyching himself up, and Enjolras wonders if the task of teaching him to kiss is really that bad. It can’t be that hard.

And then Enjolras realizes that this is properly happening, or is about to, and even if he wanted to back out, which he most certainly does _not_ , it would be really awkward both of them, so he might as well just go through with it. It would be fine. Combeferre promised it would be fine.

“Okay, well,” Grantaire is standing very close and Enjolras is finding it very difficult to breathe normally. “There’s all the basic stuff I guess? Don’t have a mouthful of saliva,” Enjolras swallows self-consciously. His mouth has been dry this whole time, and _now_ it decides to start salivating. Of course. “And you don’t want your lips super wet but you don’t want them chapped and dry either.” Enjolras resists the urge to lick his lips or touch them with his fingertips. He hopes they’re neither of those things.

He thinks Grantaire might notice, because he says, “And, you need to relax.”

“I am relaxed!” Enjolras says, indignant, but the quiet crack of his voice negates the statement.

Grantaire doesn’t comment, and only the slightest of brow movements tells Enjolras that the sound had not gone unnoticed. Grantaire puts his hands on Enjolras’ shoulders, and when he meets resistance, pressed lightly on them until they lowered minutely. He smiles. “Dude, relax.”

“Don’t call me dude, we’re about to kiss.”

“You can’t call the person you’re kissing ‘dude’?” Grantaire asks. “That seems a little unreasonable.”

Grantaire licks his lips again, and he’s grinning crookedly, the way he always does when he’s teasing Enjolras about global warming or wage discrepancies, and Enjolras has never understood the desire to kiss a smirk off of someone’s face, but he definitely understands wanting to shut someone up, and kissing someone in the process does not seem like a bad combination.

“Look, are you going to kiss me or not?” Enjolras demands.

Every movie he’s ever seen that uses that line has the other person, rather passionately (or violently? Enjolras has never been sure), grabbing the speaker and kissing them hard while music swells in the background, sudden downpour of rain optional.

Grantaire does not do this.

Instead, his eyebrows rise up, and his smile is still playful, but when Enjolras meets his gaze, he finds Grantaire’s blue eyes soft and focused, and Enjolras wants to look away, but he doesn’t.

His whole body is buzzing. He shifts from one foot to the other, hoping maybe that would alleviate the trembling numbness in his legs. It does nothing. Enjolras’ gaze traces a scar above Grantaire’s eyebrow, down his nose, to his lips, gently parted. He has tiny freckles above his top lip, how has Enjolras never noticed those before.

Grantaire still hasn’t made any move to kiss him. How much time has passed, it feels like hours. All Grantaire has managed to do in the that time is watch Enjolras with the same wide-eyed concentration. What is he waiting for?

Making an impatient noise, Enjolras takes matters into his own hands.

The distance between them is minimal. It is so small that Enjolras can count the eyelashes rimming Grantaire’s eyes, and see the way his breath rustles the bristles of his beard.

It is small enough that when Enjolras surges forward, he miscalculates the force needed to bring their lips together.

To call it a kiss would be a gross misrepresentation of kissing everywhere.

His nose crashes into Grantaire’s hard, and in the split second it takes to sort that out, pushing forward insistently, he finds himself not with his lips pleasantly pressed against Grantaire’s but inexplicably, with Grantaire’s lower lip pressed against his teeth. It is wetter than he had been expecting.

Judging by the startled noise Grantaire makes, this is not how it is supposed to go.

Large hands on his shoulders, this time gently pushing him away, not that he needed much additional guidance on that part, Enjolras takes a step back, blood rushing to his cheeks. “I’m sorry-“ he starts, but Grantaire waves him off.

He expects Grantaire to laugh at him, make some joke about him finally not being good at something, but though Grantaire is smiling, albeit a little pained, he doesn’t laugh. “Okay, so, no offence, but not like that,” Grantaire says, touching his fingers to his mouth gingerly.

Despite this, fight or flight instincts are kicking in, and Enjolras takes another step back. “You know what, this was a mistake, I shouldn’t have asked you to do this.” Forgetting about his coat abandoned on the couch, he spins towards the door, marching with what is left of his dignity towards his escape. “I’m sorry, have a nice nigh-“

“Enjolras!” Grantaire calls after him, and he stops, but doesn’t turn around. Enjolras’ cheeks are still burning, and at the very least he wants to make sure his expression isn’t mortified and lovesick if he does have to face Grantaire. “Come back, it’s okay.”

The gentleness of his voice is what allows Enjolras to take a deep breath, straighten his shoulders, and turn to Grantaire.

Grantaire is watching him, always watching him, but the awed look has tempered slightly, replaced instead with fond amusement. The edges of his eyes are crinkled up, and Enjolras can see his bottom lip looks a little redder than usual. Enjolras finds himself looking anywhere but Grantaire’s eyes, staring determinedly at his eyebrows, or his cheeks, or the spot between his eyes, anywhere on his face that wasn’t his gaze.

“Sorry about, uh,” Enjolras gestures to his own mouth.

At this does Grantaire finally laugh, a quick, quiet burst. “Dude, I said it was fine.”

“Don’t call me ‘dude,’” Enjolras says again, making a face, horror momentarily forgotten.

Grantaire grins at him, and waves his hand between them. “Want to try again?”

Biting his lip, Enjolras looks down at his hands. Grantaire seems to have relaxed into the idea of teaching Enjolras how to kiss, though Enjolras still quietly curses Courfeyrac and his meddling. But he had wanted this; this was his own fault.

Exhaling long and hard, Enjolras nodded, taking a step forward.

“Wait,” Grantaire says quickly, putting his hands out, and Enjolras freezes. Grantaire runs his hands through his dark curls, sheepish. “Maybe I should have explained first. I didn’t really do any. Explaining that is. Uh,” he flounders for a moment. “Remember I said relax? Relax your mouth.”

In response, Enjolras feels his lips thin as he frowns at Grantaire, confused.

“Not quite,” Grantaire says, reaching out slowly, enough that Enjolras could have moved out of his way, and cups Enjolras’ chin with his hand. He thumbs Enjolras’ bottom lip, catching it slightly, and tugging it down. He takes another step toward Enjolras, and fixates on Enjolras’ mouth while Enjolras centers on Grantaire’s lowered eyes.

Grantaire’s thumb is calloused, but his touch light, and Enjolras allows his lips to part, sighing softly.

Bright blue eyes flicker up to meet his own and Enjolras wants to take a step back but finds himself frozen on the spot. Grantaire blinks a few times, and clears his throat. “Right, like that,” he says, and his voice is too loud in the close space. “You want them soft.”

Grantaire licks his lips again. “So then, you want to tilt your head, probably to the right.” His fingers push lightly against the side of Enjolras’ jaw. “But lead with your chin, not your nose.” Enjolras feels his cheeks heat again when he remembers bumping their noses together as hard as he had.

“And then you…” He realizes that Grantaire is leaning in when he feels his words against his face, and sees his lashes flutter closed. “Lean forward,” Grantaire murmurs, and Enjolras can feel the blood rushing in his ears, hears his heart pounding in his chest. Grantaire has brought his over hand up to cup Enjolras’ face between them, and he is drawing Enjolras towards him. Enjolras is supposed to close his eyes right? Grantaire didn’t say, but Grantaire’s eyes are closed, so Enjolras takes that as his answer. He trusts Grantaire not to miss.

“And, kiss,” Grantaire finishes, barely more than a breath, and then his lips are on Enjolras’ and-

_Oh._

This is not at all like Enjolras’ first, attempted kiss.

This is soft, and close-lipped, and Enjolras inhales sharply through his nose, half surprised, half enthralled. Grantaire’s lips are warm, and move slowly against Enjolras’, parting slightly. He can feel the roughness of Grantaire’s beard against his top lip and chin, and presses deeper into the kiss. His hands feel like they should be doing something, Grantaire’s are cupping his face; does he need to grab Grantaire’s hair? The kiss seems a little tame to be grabbing anyone’s hair. He settles for hovering them tentatively above Grantaire’s waist, barely putting any pressure into the action, thumb and forefinger pinching the soft material of Grantaire’s sweater.

Enjolras thinks he understands why people make such a big deal over kissing now. Well, he still doesn’t think they need to big as big of a deal as they’re made out to be, but they’re certainly very pleasant, and he would not say no to kisses in the future, especially if they’re with a certain blue eyed skeptic.

When Grantaire pulls away, however, part of Enjolras is glad. Breathing had taken a very low spot on his list of priorities, and he hadn’t been able to figure out how to do so while his lips were occupied and his mind briefly distracted.

It takes a few moments of simply breathing before Enjolras’ head stops feeling as though it is swaying back and forth, and trusts himself to open his eyes and look at Grantaire.

Grantaire still has his eyes closed, and his face is tilted down and away from Enjolras, dark brows knit together. Enjolras watches as Grantaire’s tongue darts out, wetting his lips, pursing them together and tucking them in on themselves.

They are standing so close and it feels so natural, so right, that Enjolras forgets why they are like this in the first place.

That is, until Grantaire clears his throat, bobbing his head up and down, “Yeah, so, you- you got the idea.” He takes a step back, blinking his eyes open. He’s staring at a point on Enjolras’ shirt.

The rush of air that comes between them when Grantaire moves back feels unseasonably cold, despite the fact that they are inside. “Yeah, so good job,” Grantaire says.

“That’s it?” Enjolras asks, only half aware that he’s speaking. It was very anticlimactic if he is going to say so. Not that it wasn’t a nice kiss it was just… too short. Too fast.

Grantaire moves towards the living room, picking up stray beer bottles and mugs. “Yeah, I mean, it’s not that difficult, Courf really-”

“I mean, but that’s just one type of kiss, surely there’s more!” Enjolras knows he sounds ridiculous, and probably desperate as well, but he wasn’t going to get another chance to kiss Grantaire after tonight, he might as well make the most of every opportunity.

The look Grantaire gives him when he turns around is borderline comedic, one brow arched high, and the other deeply furrowed. His mouth settles into a firm line, not quite frowning. “I mean, not really,” he says. “There’s variations, but you’ve got the basic concept.” He crosses the room, going around the couch, to avoid Enjolras it seems. Enjolras trails him to the kitchen.

Setting the beer bottles near the bins, Grantaire sets the mugs in the sink. He has his back to Enjolras, so Enjolras can’t see what he’s doing, but his shoulders are hunched in, and he’s resting his hands on the counter, possibly bracing himself.

“I mean I was just thinking, practically,” Enjolras tries. “It would be good to learn, you know? For the future?”

Grantaire hums, but it isn’t clear if he’s agreeing or not. Enjolras doesn’t know what happened to the guy who was calling him dude a minute ago, but he’s worried he won’t be able to bring him back. Maybe he pushed too far. They should have discussed the boundaries first.

“That’s all you need to know,” Grantaire says again. “If you want to kiss someone, that’ll do, really. They can teach you, or you can figure it out, just like, I don’t know, match what the other person does.” Maybe Enjolras is imagining things, but Grantaire seems irritated now, cold. “It’s how the rest of us figure out what we’re doing.”

Grantaire sets a clean mug on the counter, and moves on to the next one. Enjolras picks up the dishtowel again, but hesitates to take those few steps towards the sink and help again.

Wringing the towel between his hands, Enjolras leans up against the far counter. He wants to say something, doesn’t like this silence that has fallen between them. He and Grantaire are rarely silent, always exchanging barbs and scorching comments, always taunting one another. They’re only silent when Enjolras has said something particularly scathing, and Grantaire pretends it doesn’t hurt him, sulking in the corner of the Musain until Joly drinks him under the table.

“So, why didn’t you have Courfeyrac to teach you?” Grantaire asks, sudden and loud. Enjolras jumps, and takes a step back.

“Because I didn’t – don’t – want Courfeyrac to teach me,” Enjolras says without thinking.

Grantaire sighs heavily, reaching for another mug, and how many mugs had their friends used? There were only twelve of them. “Yeah? And why’s that?”

Enjolras almost says it, but he remembers what Grantaire said about being on the same page, about their being friends, and says instead, “Because I wanted you to.”

Grantaire sets the mug he’s rinsing off on the counter harder than he needs to. It must be the last one, because he’s dumping out the dishwater, and drying his hands again. Enjolras’ hands aren’t shaking, but they feel like they’re buzzing, and he thinks they’re numb, so he tightens his grip on the dishtowel. It doesn’t help.

“But why?” Grantaire presses. “What are you getting out of this?”

“I told you, I’m learning to-“

“But why _me?_ ” He spins around to face Enjolras, and he’s breathing a little raggedly, and he must be taking in all the air in the room because Enjolras finds he can only inhale shallow, useless breaths of air.

Enjolras gapes at him, the words dead on his lips.

“Nothing?” Grantaire asks, and he hadn’t been mocking before, not when Enjolras was truly making an idiot of himself, but his lips, so soft and patient, are now curled back in a sneer. “This is a rarity. Enjolras doesn’t have some scorching response to put Grantaire in his place?”

“No,” Enjolras says. He doesn’t remember the last time he told off Grantaire, it feels like long ago, though they still bicker and Grantaire still tries to push every one of his buttons.

One look at Grantaire tells him that even if it had been years, Grantaire would still be expecting a reprimand – for what, though? He’s done nothing wrong here.

Enjolras’ lips part, and he’s going to apologize, but the only thing he can think to say is, “I should go.” And this time, he doesn’t forget his coat, though he does have to double back to get it, but when he turns to face the door, Grantaire is blocking his way.

Grantaire is not particularly tall, though he is only a few inches shorter than Enjolras. But he fills a space when he wants to, when he’s not shrinking himself into his chair, ducking his head and avoiding eye contact. He doesn’t look angry, he doesn’t even look annoyed anymore. If anything, he looks ashamed “I’m sorry, Enjolras-“

“What on Earth do you have to be sorry for?” Enjolras demands, and Grantaire’s eyes widen, his mouth dropping open. “You have done nothing, _nothing,_ wrong, why are you apologizing?”

“I’ve clearly said something wrong, I shouldn’t have-“ Grantaire starts, but Enjolras is shaking his head. He cannot believe what he is hearing.

“You were questioning why I would come in here and ask you to kiss me, that’s not wrong, Grantaire. That’s smart. That’s, I don’t know, logical. Who just comes into someone’s apartment and asks them to kiss them?”

“You were already here,” Grantaire mutters. “And I’m sure you had your reasons.”

Enjolras shakes his head, because he can’t believe what he is hearing. “That’s no excuse. You have a right to know!”

This sparks something in Grantaire eyes and he looks at Enjolras expectantly, brows furrowed and confused. “I mean…” He doesn’t finish the thought. He takes a moment, mouth still gaping a little bit before it snaps closed and he looks down at his hands. “I hadn’t really minded.”

That is not what Enjolras expected him to say. “Oh,” he says.

“Yeah.”

Enjolras’ mind is racing, wondering why it is that Grantaire wouldn’t mind, and he can supply a few reasons, his heart in his throat, but he doesn’t want to admit them to himself, doesn’t want the disappointment when he finds out they’re not true. “Why?” he asks, and curses himself.

Grantaire’s mouth thins, blood leaving his lips like they’re physically keeping him from speaking. “It’s not important.” And then, before Enjolras can ask another question, he fires back, “Why me? You know how I feel about you, why would you-“

“How do you feel about me?” Enjolras demands. There’s no feeling in his face, his lips are numb, and he’s staring as Grantaire pales.

“Surely, you know.".

Enjolras thinks back to Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s teasing, Jehan’s winks. He thinks back to Feuilly’s reactions every time he saw Enjolras looking back at them. Back to Bossuet’s watchful eyes.

More so, he thinks back to Grantaire’s stares, his constant interrupting, drawing Enjolras’ attention at every opportunity, and the way his lips parted when he caught Enjolras’ eye.

Like pieces of a puzzle Enjolras hadn’t realized he had been solving, he realizes what Grantaire is saying.

“You like me.”

Grantaire flinches.

Enjolras feels unbearably light.

“You didn’t know?” Grantaire is asking, and Enjolras is barely aware that he’s speaking, because he’s too busy berating himself for not acting sooner. “How did you not know?”

“No,” Enjolras says, and he feels like his smile is going to split his face in half.

Grantaire isn’t smiling. He’s still looking at Enjolras warily, back pressed against the counter. The tension in his shoulders is palpable from where Enjolras is standing. “How?” Grantaire’s voice is small.

Smile fading, Enjolras says honestly, “I don’t know.”

The way Grantaire’s face crumples, as if it could look more forlorn than it already does, makes Enjolras’ chest tighten. “It’s fine, of course,” Grantaire says, and he is trying to be casual, but it comes off silted, forced. “I would never expect you to, you know, think I would-“

“Grantaire!” Enjolras interrupts. “I never answered your question, your ‘Why you’ question.”

“Yeah, I just figured-“

The words come out in a rush and he doesn’t bother to filter them. “I like you. Courfeyrac and Combeferre were teasing me because you offered to teach me how to kiss, and they know I like you, so they wanted me to take you up on it, and I wasn’t going to, because I thought you didn’t like me, but then I was like ‘well, if he doesn’t like me, I won’t ask him out, it’s fine’ but apparently you do, so I mean, I guess -- would you like to go out with me?”

He has to take a moment and review what he’s said when it’s done, because he wants to make certain he’s covered everything, and he thinks he could have gone on about Grantaire’s eyes, or his crooked smile, or his gentle hands, or the patient way he interacts with Gavroche and Azelma, or the way his laugh is infectious, and, and, and. He thinks he might have been able to go on forever.

What he’s said will have to suffice. For now.

Grantaire’s mouth is forming words, but no sound is coming out.

Enjolras looks to the side, and then back to Grantaire again. Grantaire still hasn’t said anything.

Honestly, he thought once he told Grantaire things would be pretty neatly wrapped up. Apparently not.

“So,” he starts, but his voice must jumpstart something in Grantaire’s system because he is interrupted by:

“You like _me_?” Like it’s the most preposterous thing in the world. Like that isn’t exactly what Enjolras just said.

“Yes,” he says, keeping his tone patient. He can see the gears moving behind Grantaire’s narrowed eyes, and he decides to wait. Clearly this is not what Grantaire had been expecting from him, and he wants nothing more than to let Grantaire absorb this information in his own time.

When Grantaire does speak next, he doesn’t say what Enjolras is expecting him to say. Instead, he says, “Wait, so you knew I thought you didn’t like me and you still had me kiss you anyways?” His tone isn’t accusing, if anything, it’s amused, but Enjolras ducks his head, ashamed.

Then he remembers. “You did the same thing!”

“That’s fair,” Grantaire grins.

And then they’re standing in Grantaire’s kitchen a little after midnight, smirking at one another, and Enjolras realizes he never got an answer.

“So do you? Want to go out with me that is?”       

The smile fades off of Grantaire’s face, and the sinking in Enjolras’ stomach drops just as quickly. He doesn’t know why Grantaire would say no. Well, that’s not true. He can think of a couple of reasons why Grantaire would say no. But he wants to change those things. Make them better.

“You were serious?” Grantaire asks, and his voice has shrunk again, and Enjolras hates to think that he had any part in that.

“Of course,” he says, just as quietly. “I l-“ he hesitates to say ‘love,’ because he doesn’t feel like that is something he wants to throw around this early, this tentative. He doesn’t want to scare Grantaire off. He wants to know Grantaire better before he declares that. “I really like you,” he says. “And I’d really like to like you more, if you would be okay with that.”

“Oh,” Grantaire says.

“Yeah,” Enjolras says, except this time he doesn’t let them lapse into awkward silence. “So is that a yes?” he asks hopefully. He may push himself up on his toes, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet nervously.

Grantaire’s eyes track him silently, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips before he answers. “Yes,” he says.

All the bones seem to leave Enjolras’ body in a sigh of relief. “Oh good,” he says, and Grantaire is watching him with a strange smile on his face, brows furrowed in confusion. “I was really not sure what you were going to say,” he explains. It doesn’t lessen the puzzled expression on Grantaire’s face in any way, but Enjolras thinks that he has a lot of time to ask questions later.

“I had just told you I liked you,” Grantaire says.

“That doesn’t necessarily mean you want to date me,” Enjolras counters.

Grantaire seems to accept that with a shrug, and then his face starts to smooth out, a smile breaking out wide across his face, no longer confused, just, judging by the laugh that follows, breathlessly thrilled. Enjolras doesn’t know why he’s laughing, but he can’t help but join in.

Enjolras feels lighter than he has in ages, his stomach not sick with anxiety, his hands still. He’s content to stay leaning across the tiny kitchen from Grantaire – his _boyfriend_ , and how weird is that? Weird and amazing - just watching him laugh.

At some point though, they’re not laughing anymore, just kind of staring at each other, and Enjolras asks, “Want to teach me those other kisses now?” Because this time they’re both on the same page, and he doesn’t have to pretend.

Grantaire laughs, a short chuckle, nothing full, but no less genuine. Enjolras wants to hear him laugh more, like this. Not self-deprecating, or after too many bottles of wine. Real and confident.

“If you insist,” he says, closing the distance between them in two steps.

He stops just in front of Enjolras, their faces inches apart. His hands fall to Enjolras’ hips, thumb catching under Enjolras’ tee shirt and brushing the strip of bare skin there. Enjolras thinks he’s supposed to jolt at the touch, but he finds it pleasant, comforting, if a little ticklish.

Grantaire’s eyes are heavy lidded again, watching Enjolras’ lips intently, eyes flickering up to meet Enjolras’.

And then he is leaning in, and Enjolras knows what to expect this time, tilting his head to fit their mouths together, lips parted.

It’s easier this time, slower, and they break apart to breathe, which is definitely a help. Grantaire is tentative, pressing barely-there lips against Enjolras’ like he still isn’t sure that this is supposed to be happening. Enjolras knows smiling into the kiss doesn’t make anything about it easier for either of them, but he does it anyways.

Enjolras’ heart is thudding hard in his chest, but his whole body feels so light, he thinks he may disappear, fizzle out of existence. His insides feel like they are melting, a liquid fire glowing somewhere in the pit of his stomach, making its way to nestle in his chest. He hopes that fire never goes out.

Grantaire is what grounds him, keeps him in the moment, Enjolras’ fist clenched in his shirt. He pushes up a little on his toes to deepen the kiss, and Enjolras makes a noise of surprise at the back of his throat. The thumb at his hip rubs slow circles into his skin. Enjolras wants to know how Grantaire has the presence of mind to do that right now, but he’s not going to complain.

After what is not long enough by anyone’s standards, they pull apart. He’s breathless, but this time, he’s not the only one. He lowers his head enough that he can touch his forehead to Grantaire’s, his nose fitting against Grantaire’s brow.

“You’re still going to be a little shit at meetings, aren’t you?”

“Yep.”

“Good.” And it is good. There may have been things between them that needed work, but Enjolras didn’t want to lose what was fundamentally them. Even if at times it was irritating as all hell, underneath it all was a layer of humor and understanding.

They stay like that, and at some point, Enjolras’ arms find their way around Grantaire’s waist, hesitant and hovering at first, before making a decision and tightening there, bring Grantaire closer to him. Grantaire shifts, moving his head so it rests in the crook of Enjolras’ shoulder and arms wrapping around to hold him closer. Enjolras has found he likes kissing, he really, really does, and wants to do more of it. A lot more of it.

But what he really likes is this closeness, breathing together, simply touching and being held.

**Author's Note:**

> Tbh my first kiss was p lackluster, and he missed and I was like ‘uh you wanna try that again’ and I wasn’t super into kissing until pretty recently; I was actually really uncomfortable with kissing. I have since very much changed my tune.
> 
> Also this was low key inspired because I was remembering (a little very mortified) this time where my ex girlfriend was like ‘lead with your chin not your nose’ and I was like ‘oh.’
> 
> I am on tumblr at girlionceknew or g-taire!


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